For the first part of the journey home, I lean back on the headrest, gazing into a sky that’s an electric shade of blue, streaked with wispy brushstrokes of white. I keep replaying the end of that conversation with Terri, which I haven’t been able to get out of my head since it happened. It was all I could think about as I walked into the presentation at Barisian – and it was at the front of my mind as I sat through my board meeting and then another unscheduled tête-à-tête with Niles and Jacinta afterwards. I know it’s nothing others haven’t told me over the years. But there’s something about it coming from Ed’s mum – the person he was closest to, above all others – that makes it different from all the platitudes I’ve heard before.
Between that and today’s events, my head is throbbing almost as much as the balls of my feet. I’d love nothing more than to close my eyes and snooze on the train home. But I’m wired now. And I can’t get comfortable, even when I sink into the headrest and allow my gaze to drift across the fields outside the window.
My thoughts turn to the team, who will all be arriving at the gates around now, full of nervous excitement. Maybe it’smy enforced absence, but my biggest hope is that they can put aside their nerves enough to enjoy themselves, savour one last endorphin high and squeeze every bit of joy out of this season, even if it does prove to be their last. As the clock ticks over to 6.30pm, I say a little prayer for my friends, if you can call it that when the main message is this: Dear God. May they knock ’em dead.
Soothed by the gentle rocking of the carriage, my eyelids eventually close and the dreamy slide show that filters in behind them is one my thoughts have repeatedly tugged back to recently. When I think of the times I shared with Sam this summer, it makes my whole body smile. Those hot evenings practising at the club. Drinking Spanish rosé in La Manga. A perfect English summer’s day at Wimbledon. And his kisses. The way they started at my lips and melted all the way through me, right down to my toes . . .
I am startled awake when I realise we’ve stopped. I sit up blearily to get my bearings, and, as well as the murmurings up and down the carriage, I register that the train is at a station. Except it’s called ‘Cheadle Hill’, we’re still fifteen miles from home and, unless I’m very much mistaken, we’re not supposed to be here.
An announcement crackles through the tannoy.
‘Apologies for the unscheduled stop, ladies and gents,’ says a world-weary voice trying hard to sound cheerful.
‘A mechanical glitch unfortunately means we need to wait for an engineer before we set off again. Our maintenance team isn’t renowned for moving like greased lightning, but you’ll be glad to know that the powers-that-be have ordered a bus replacement service, which will be here as soon as the driver has finished his takeaway.’
There is a collective groan.
‘Passengers are welcome to disembark here and try their luck with a taxi firm. In the meantime, for those of you sittingit out with me here, the buffet car is open, offering a limited selection of curling sandwiches and a palate-stripper otherwise known as Sauvignon Blanc. So sit back, relax and enjoy!’
For fuck’s sake. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to make the end-of-season refreshments, let alone get to watch any tennis. I pull out my phone, as various passengers start to get off the train, presumably to try and get a taxi. Others are already calling relatives for lifts. I try to log onto Google Maps to see where we are but, judging by the reception I’ve got, I might as well be in outer space.
I abandon my coat and begin to march down the aisle, trying to find a glimmer of service. The best spot turns out to be next to the toilet, huddled amongst various other passengers with the misfortune of having the same network provider as me.
I eventually make contact with Jeff’s line. It goes straight to voicemail. I wrack my brains for anyone else, but my parents are having dinner with friends tonight and all my other best bets for a lift are either playing in or watching tonight’s matches.
I eventually log onto Uber but it seems I am too late. The demand from other stranded passengers has pushed the fares up to a frankly eye-watering level. I google a local taxi company, but the woman who answers leaves me with no doubts about the competition I face. ‘Are you stuck on that train? I’ve had the world and his wife phone me in the last five minutes. You’re out of luck love, sorry.’
Clearly, I have absolutely no option but to sit this out. I reach in my bag for theCheckmatebook. As I withdraw it, I notice for the first time that tucked inside one of the pages is the stub of an old-fashioned flight ticket – our return from Crete all those years ago. I run my fingers over Ed’s name before moving it aside, where my eyes land on a single sentence.
‘When a chance for real happiness comes by, grab it with both hands.’
My head begins to swell again, my thoughts drifting.
Then my phone rings.
It’s Rose.
‘Jules. We need you.’
I sit up straighter. ‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘Barbara fell. She’s done something to her knee. It’s blown up like a balloon.’
‘Oh God. Is she all right?’
‘Well, wethinkso but she definitely can’t play and Jeff’s had to take her to the walk-in centre. As she was driving off she told me to give you a ring. Turns out, we have to forfeit that first match – so that’s an automatic loss. But we’ve still got the second one to play and we’re allowed to bring on a substitute.’
Her voice sounds so urgent that it begs another question.
‘How are the others getting on?’ I ask.
‘We’ve won two matches, Jules. So far the score is 3–1 to us, with three more matches to play.We can still do this.’
‘So Lisa won?’
‘She lobbed like her life depended on it. In the meantime, I need you as my partner for the second match.’
‘Rose I . . .’ I look outside as a woman gets into a taxi in the station forecourt and drives away. ‘I don’t think I can.’
